


Seventh Born

by Lucky107



Series: The Seventh Born [5]
Category: Far Cry 5
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-25
Updated: 2018-05-25
Packaged: 2019-05-13 15:57:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14751890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lucky107/pseuds/Lucky107
Summary: Roberta’s harrowing blue eyes reflect the midnight stars like a galaxy all their own.





	Seventh Born

“What in the world’re you grinnin’ ‘bout, Robbie Lee?” Sharky Boshaw demands, knowing full well it ain’t that disaster of a plan they just escaped from by the skin of their teeth.

No, this is something _wicked_.

Roberta’s harrowing blue eyes reflect the midnight stars like a galaxy all their own, almost enrapturing and completely deflective of the adrenaline coursing through her like a live wire. But it’s the subtle twitch in the corners of her thin lips that unnerves him.

“Didn’t I ever tell you? I’m seventh born to the seventh born,” she says emphatically, staking her claim with a boastful pride. “Had me six uncles and a mean ol’ grizzly of a pa who never let me hear the end of that. Supposed to be some big magic in it or somethin’, like a prophecy.”

“Give me a break,” Sharky says, voice rich with skepticism and laughter. He’s half grinning himself because when he looks at her, he still sees that freckle-faced kid whose pigtails he used to pull in the schoolyard. That was eighteen years ago now, but it feels like only yesterday. “You do know that shit only applies to the seventh born _son_ , right?”

“The Seed family don’t seem to think so.”

Roberta dangles a cigarette between her lips and Sharky’s got a match lit before she can even determine where she’s put her old man’s Zippo lighter. In the contemplative silence born there, only the lonely lullaby of crickets and rustling leaves carries on the warm summer night. It completely erodes the adrenaline in their veins.

Sharky puts out the match with fire-blackened fingertips, looks out across the river and muses a somber, “You ain’t serious—”

“You best hope I am,” Roberta murmurs around the butt. “Else we’s all goin’ to be in a heap of trouble.”


End file.
